“Promise?” she asked. “I promise,” David said firmly. As Maya followed the manager, David pulled out his phone and made a call.
He dialed Andrew, his driver and personal assistant. “Andrew, I need you to do something for me. Go to the department store on Michigan Ave. I need a full wardrobe for a seven-year-old girl. Dresses, jeans, sweaters, pajamas, shoes—the works. And get some basic toiletries.”
“I need it at The Oak Room in an hour.” After a pause, he added, “And Andrew, get the good stuff. Nothing flashy, just high quality. Also, tell Mrs. Gable to get the guest suite ready at the penthouse.”
He hung up and noticed an older gentleman at the next table watching him with a small, approving nod. The man, dressed in a classic tweed suit, raised his glass slightly in a silent toast. Meanwhile, in the lavish restroom, an attendant watched in surprise as Maya tried to reach the high marble sink.
“Let me help you, sweetie,” the woman said, bringing over a small step stool. Maya looked at the gold-plated faucets and the scented soap with awe. She washed her hands and face with a meticulousness that suggested it was a sacred ritual.
The attendant helped her smooth out her tangled curls. “Have you known Mr. Miller long?” the woman asked curiously. “He’s my dad,” Maya said simply, repeating the word that felt like a shield in her heart. The attendant raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.
When Maya returned to the table, her clean face revealed delicate features and even more expressive eyes. David was struck by the transformation. Just a little soap and water had revealed the bright, resilient child hidden under the grime.
“Better?” he asked, smiling. “Much better,” Maya said, climbing back into her seat. “The soap smells like lemons.” The waiter, sensing the shift in the air, brought out the main course: a small filet mignon with roasted potatoes and green beans, cut into kid-sized pieces.
“Is this all for me?” Maya asked, her eyes wide. “All for you,” David confirmed. “But eat slowly. Your stomach might not be used to a big meal.” Maya nodded and began to eat with intense concentration.
David watched her, his heart heavy with the realization of how much she’d endured. “You said your mom went to heaven,” David said gently. “How long has it been?” Maya chewed thoughtfully before answering. “About a year, I think. She got really sick. We lived in a little house by the park.”
“After she died, my dad got really sad. He started drinking that stuff that makes people act mean.” “The bottle?” David guessed. “Yeah. He drank a lot and forgot to buy groceries.”
Maya continued her story with the heartbreaking matter-of-factness of a child. “One day he said he was going out for cigarettes and he just never came back. I waited a long time.” David felt a lump in his throat.
“Was there no one else? Family? Neighbors?” “There was Mrs. Higgins next door. She gave me food sometimes, but then she had to move to a nursing home,” Maya shrugged. “Then the landlord said we hadn’t paid rent, and I had to leave.”
The story was a textbook case of a child falling through the cracks. “What about school? Did you go to school?” “I did,” Maya said, her face lighting up briefly. “I loved it. My teacher, Mrs. Adler, was so nice. But after I didn’t have a house, I was too embarrassed to go when I was dirty.”
Every detail was a gut-punch to David. He thought of all the times he’d walked past people on the street, looking away, maybe tossing a few bucks to ease his conscience. How many “Mayas” had he ignored? “Can you read?” he asked.
Maya’s face beamed. “I can! I was the best in my class.” She paused, the smile fading. “At least, that’s what Mrs. Adler said.” “That’s wonderful, Maya. Reading is the most important thing.”
A comfortable silence settled between them as Maya finished her meal. David realized that for the first time in years, he hadn’t checked his phone once. He was entirely present. “Do you have kids?” Maya asked suddenly.
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